


When Old Men Plant Trees

by ScrimshawPen



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Science Fiction, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17701250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrimshawPen/pseuds/ScrimshawPen
Summary: It's the dawn of the twenty-fifth century and Mr. House's vision for humanity finally nears fruition. A short story in two parts, this is a window onto the world he created, as seen through the eyes of a reluctant witness. (Distantly post-canon, rated T for mild language.)





	1. Part I

_"A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit."_  - Proverb of unknown origin

* * *

_There is no enigma of the reborn West more perplexing than the staying power and success of the entity known as Mr. House. Until the time of the Courier, outsiders saw him as a local despot, significant only by virtue of his immortality. The Second Battle of Hoover Dam marked a sea change in the Mojave, however, and every move of his since has reflected his ascendancy - toward what goal, precisely, no one knows. Yet he does it well._

_Everyone, from the NCR to La Ciudad to the fledgling Confederacy in the east, has become a partner to his endeavors. There was no choice. No one has the tools to fight him nor the mercantile independence to ignore him. His terms are fair and they do not refuse him anything, whether materials or artifacts or people; in return, he doles out refined products and information, reserving for himself the technology that makes him untouchable from a military standpoint._

_For better or for worse, and for reasons this author still does not fully understand, the known world of today revolves around a single personality enthroned above a tiny island of prosperity and ignorance in the desert. He has made this country small again with his Great Railroad. With a miracle plucked from the past, he has given us back the means to feed ourselves on a grand scale. He has done all of this without using the war machine at his disposal, giving us a century of lasting peace. For the recovery he makes possible, we - the Followers of the Apocalypse - bless him._

_In the next breath, we - the cynical, suspicious people we have always been - want to know: what is his end game? What will be the consequences of allowing one architect to shape humanity's future? And, most importantly, what will happen when Mr. House loses interest in his centuries-long experiment?_

-Excerpt from  _A History of New Vegas, vol. II: 2281-2381._

* * *

"Vegas bound, Kovich? Better you than me, boyo. I don't get closer to that place than Cottonwood Shipping if I can help it. The bots, the smoke-and-mirrors, the overall  _weirdness_ … no thank you. Nah… give me the extra two weeks' travel for the Flagstaff route any day." The man was drunk off the slim profits of his two-Brahmin outfit, red-faced and stupid. Mr. House wouldn't even  _allow_  someone like this to work for him, Kovich knew. He reserved that privilege for people who knew how to keep their mouths shut.

The caravan master grunted sourly in reply and tipped his drink back, swallowing the remainder of the whiskey in a single gulp that burned as it went down. The tiny "town" of the Mojave Outpost, where the railroads and wagon-roads converged into a single pair of tracks running parallel to the highway, was almost entirely populated by opportunistic merchants who could charge the sky for food and drink. Not only did the booze cost twice what it should, but it was seasoned by the idle chatter of men like this one, who actually bought into the superstitious bullshit of the old humbug in his tower.

The old man paid his tab and left the bar without a farewell, crossing the road to check in with the guards posted over his Brahmin. Ard Kovich was a self-made success, and he owed that to his own meticulous care. At age 17, back in '61, he'd taken the last pair of oxen from his deceased father's failed farm and used them to trace the well-worn route between the Hub and the Outpost. He'd done that for ten years, investing everything he earned back into his business, sleeping with his stock to guard them and save on inn fees. By the time the main rail-line was finished in late '70, he'd established his reputation as a steady, dependable boss with good discretion and a strong crew. As a younger man, he'd taken the jobs that went beyond civilization, as far east as Denver and as far south as Old Mexico. He'd even seen Canada once, before the savages up north had closed their doors to the NCR's heavy-handed offer of trade. Now, as he approached his sixtieth year at the beginning of a new century, Kovich Enterprises was one of only a half-dozen companies entrusted with delivering raw materials to Vegas in return for the refined products it produced.

The life he'd lived had not been without its costs. There was a young woman in Shady Sands with eyes like his whom he'd only met twice, though he'd sent money to her mother until the child was grown. Kovich could call no town or city home. When he retired - and he would  _have_  to retire soon, as his aching bones reminded him every morning - he would be a stranger in whatever community he laid down his load at last, tolerated because of his wealth, but not loved by anybody. His shiftless father and long-dead mother would have been disappointed, but Kovich was long past caring about that.

Until he finally sold out, he would execute his contracts with characteristic professionalism - an unexciting, blessedly-boring circuit to and from the NCR's rail-less communities and the Mojave Outpost. On an average run, he would escort ten full cartloads and a string of passenger coaches, carrying the wealthy to see and experience the eccentricities of the city. There was little variation to the routes, or to the loads they carried: iron, fuel, and clay to the factories at the city limits, and electronics, tools, parts, solar cells, and ceramic fixtures on the return trip. He completed twenty-five such trips in an average year. His crew took a quarterly furlough in the Hub, and he rotated them off according to request. Most had been with him for years.

Once a year, he would go beyond the Outpost, accompanying his merchandise and his passengers on the last leg of their pilgrimage. There, in a too-cold, too-clean room that smelled of nothing but the sweat he carried in with him, he would renegotiate the terms of his labor to some pale-faced clerk with soft hands and a polite smile. This wasn't his only obligation in Vegas, but it was the only one he admitted openly.

After Kovich had assured himself that the Brahmin were safe, well-watered and well-fed in their pen, and that the men on guard were alert and sober, he walked through the long, narrow barracks, noting with satisfaction that most of the remaining crew had preceded him to the bunks. He didn't demand a strict curfew, but he seldom had problems with rowdiness or overindulgence on the road. Those that were the sort to raise hell at pit stops didn't last more than one trip with him.

He sneered at the man - a mere boy, in Kovich's book - asleep on the bunk at the end of the row, a few feet from the door which led to his private cabin. Not just another well-heeled tourist, bound for the Strip, this one. Not a green hireling either. (As if he'd hire a snot-nosed college boy who'd never done an honest day's work in his life!)

No, Daniel Mueller was a  _tribute_. Another morsel for whatever appetites Mr. House needed to satisfy. Sometimes they were men. More often they were women. They were all between twenty and twenty-five, all well-educated. Mr. House preferred orphans raised by the Followers, and the NCR reimbursed the Followers handsomely for the annual sacrifice of one of their members. One way or another, every year, Mr. House would receive a human being as a condition of his long-ago treaty with the NCR. Slavery was not normally tolerated in the civilized world, but Danny Mueller was just the latest exception in a long line of victims, stretching back longer than living memory.

Kovich had spent ten years conducting these youths to their fate, a task he had inherited from another old caravan master, the last of the legendary Cassidy line. He didn't  _like_  the arrangement. It never got any easier to look them in the eye. Shame and disgust kept his head turning when they looked for sympathy, information, or mercy. Kovich held the key to the shackles that kept them from bolting, and always posted a guard to prevent them from seeking a more drastic way out. He had never considered letting one of them go or declining the work. The pay was too good, the political cost of refusal too high. Besides,  _someone_  had to do it.

Kovich had allotted himself three more years to retirement, and nothing and no-one - not some unlucky lamb-to-slaughter, not the soft NCR officials who'd given him the contract, and not even spooky old Mr. House himself - would keep him from a chance to rest his feet at last.

* * *

" _Mr. House wants you, Mr. Mueller. Of all of the… er, 'applications'… that we sent in, yours was the one that caught his eye. I'm sorry." The middle-aged woman behind the desk spoke these words slowly and carefully, eyes on his face as if gauging his reaction._

_Daniel - Danny to his few friends - had expected this news when he was called into the administrative office. Had expected it, in fact, ever since he'd learned that the rotation was coming to his quadrant of the Follower's holdings in the Core. He had no luck. Had never had any luck._

_His parents had died when he was a young child, caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs. They were among the last victims of a bloody street-war that had ravaged the streets of Angeles for years. Fueled by public outrage, using the pale little orphan as a poster boy, the incumbent mayor had used military force to crush both sides. Not long after, Danny had been given to the Followers to raise. The Followers grew their numbers with their schools, educating all in the basics, and accepting the best - or the wealthiest - into their residential and advanced programs._

_Danny wasn't the brightest - merely average - but the sum of money he'd inherited from his parents, held in trust by the mayor, had been enough to grease the palm of the local school administrator. Until he was eighteen, he was guaranteed a place to live, food to eat, and the chance to learn a vocation. After that, he had an easy route into the university and the lodging available there. It was a sometimes bleak existence - he had a dozen teachers, some kind and others less so, but no parent - but he lived to adulthood. Not every parentless child in the NCR could say the same._

_The woman, whose name he had learned and instantly forgotten, seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Danny nodded. If someone had to go, why shouldn't it be him? No one would miss him, except perhaps the newly-opened power plant in Dayglo that had accepted his apprenticeship. Even there, he would be replaced almost immediately. The next most qualified candidate - likely one of his former cohorts in the competitive energy specialty - would be secretly happy to learn about Mr. House's selection. A job was a job._

_The woman behind the counter wasn't unsympathetic. She caught his eye, pressed him harder. "Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Mueller? A child with anyone? Any dependents at all? A stray dog you feed?" When he shook his head at every question, she pressed him impatiently. "I'm trying to help you, young man. You've been one of ours for fifteen years. Give me a reason and I can make this pass to someone else."_

_He stared at her, quoting a part of the Follower's informal motto as if its application should have been obvious. "'If not me, then who?' I'd feel guilty knowing someone else had to take my place."_

_There was grim approval on her face when she stamped the document and filed it away somewhere. "He doesn't eat them, you know," she told him with the hushed air of someone imparting a great confidence. "He's not some fairy-tale ogre. It's not as bad as they say. Don't be afraid."_

* * *

"Not being afraid" was easier said than done. He'd discovered this truth in the weeks of waiting since that meeting and the days of travel that had brought him ever closer to Vegas. He sorely regretted his pale, pathetic moment of nobility now that he'd had a chance to weigh that principle against the uncertainty which lay ahead. He clung to the woman's promise that he was not going to his death, but to be facing a life sentence was horror enough. At twenty-two, he'd scarcely begun to live, always played things too safe. Had never gotten up the courage to take risks. Had never even been on a date, being too shy to ask. Now he'd never have the chance.

 _This is what a condemned man must feel like on the way to the gallows_ , Danny thought. Every rocky outcrop, every clump of sagebrush between the Outpost and the glittering city ahead seemed the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He was handcuffed to his seat, a discreet distance from the paying passengers, but at least he'd been given a spot by a window. Even this pleasure was spoiled, however, by the sight of the mile markers slowly counting down from sixty. He'd meet his fate when the numbers ran out.

A city boy all his life, Danny had admired the relatively wild regions of southeastern California they'd traveled through to reach the Mojave. The closer they got to Vegas, however, the tamer the land became. For miles on either side of the Goodsprings waystation, there was cultivated land as far as the eye could see. Neat rows of hardy plants, signs of a complex irrigation system, and well-built dwellings for the farmers and their families lined the road, which itself was smoother and broader than most in the NCR.

On through the mining community of Primm they rolled, past the geometric lines of its quarters and facilities. It was just after noon, and stifling inside the carriage even with the windows open, but Danny saw children running and playing in the hard-baked schoolyard all the same. To his jaded eye, their strong, well-fed bodies were just as much propaganda as the gleaming equipment and buildings around them - a sign that Mr. House was able and willing to care for everybody in his holdings. No one went hungry here. There were no water beggars, or so the rumors said. Danny wasn't fooled, however. He didn't have to look far to see the dark side of this utopia: the chain on his wrist was proof enough of that.

"Real pretty, isn't it?" a gruff voice from his elbow spoke up.

Danny jumped. He'd almost forgotten Kovich was there. The old man had treated him with palpable contempt ever since he'd retrieved him from the train the evening before, and had spoken to him only out of necessity.  _Now_  he wanted to make small talk?

One work-hardened hand lifted, then dropped uncomfortably back into his lap. He seemed ill-at-ease and far too big for the cushioned seat. "I'm not used to being here on the inside," he said by way of explanation. "Al'ays prefer to be one of the ones on top, gentling the Brahmin along. But tradition - and caution - says I stay here. Eyes on you all the way. We've lost 'em in the past. Thirty, forty years ago, one of 'em - a girl that time, I think it was - broke the window somehow and cut her fool throat. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

Ignoring the question, Danny turned back to the view. He'd rather make an impromptu study of architecture than let this man salve his conscience with talk. Just ahead, an aqueduct spanned the road, its concrete pillars fading out in the direction of the distant lake. He admired the simple functionality of the structure, almost unchanged for thousands of years.

Not waiting for an answer, his jailor rumbled on, softly, for his ear only. "You can't compare what he's built here to the NCR. The stupid, sheeplike people who live here don't know anything that he doesn't want them to know. He's not just a dictator to them, he's a  _god_ , temples and all."

"And sacrifices," Danny added, finding his tongue unexpectedly sharp despite his fear. "Not to mention willing  _sacerdotes_  like yourself. How many of us have you delivered to his doorstep?"

Anger. Shame. Disgust. All of these took a turn on Kovich's weathered face before he spat out his reply. "You're the tenth. Don't blame  _me_ , boy. Your own people sold you like a fatted calf for the market, just like they've done with scores of others since the Treaty. Your precious Followers did this, the same ones who pretend to love their fellow man. How does it feel?"

He didn't answer, but in truth, it felt rotten. All the old arguments about necessary evils and the greater good - satisfying in the abstract, but less so when it was  _his_  future at stake - rang hollow now. He knew that the work of his people depended on bargains like this, struck long ago, but he questioned their necessity with particular fervor now.

All too soon, they reached the outer limits of New Vegas. The rail line split off from the road when they hit the factory district and ended well short of the walls in a massive depot bigger than many settlements. Danny wished he could stay here for a while with the other commodities, which large machines were laying out out in neat stacks and pyramids under the sun, but he had to continue on. Paying no heed to his preferences, the road and its pleasure-seekers continued straight up to the gate and into the city.

"Use'ta be a passenger car on that train," Kovich commented, tracking his gaze. "Trip took about forty-five minutes from the Outpost to here. People didn't like it. They come here to gawk, and they don't want to pay out the nose to get here too fast. The carriages make 'em feel like they're getting their money's worth."

Danny identified with this sentiment, though not for the same reason, but he didn't say anything. He shifted his feet and his heels bumped against his one, small suitcase, containing such personal items as he'd been permitted to pack: a few clothes, a picture of his parents, and a letter he was writing, as well as a book about the history of New Vegas, written by - who else? - a Followers scholar, and given to him by a sympathetic former professor. He hadn't been able to bring himself to read it yet; curiosity had taken a backseat to dread in recent weeks.

"Have you ever seen them again?" he asked after a long pause. "Any of the other tributes, I mean - walking around Vegas or working for Mr. House or anything?"

Kovich grunted, looking away. "No, I haven't. He's got a few humans on retainer, I know that, but I don't see them much. At least for the usual cargo."

Danny heart sank as one last hope departed. He spoke once more, trying to show a calm that he didn't feel. To his ears, it came out whining and petulant. "I don't know why I'm here. My life was always... ordinary. I never did anything to deserve this." Contemptuous or merely bored, Kovich didn't respond.

The carriages rolled past the residential quarter and into the colorful markets that bordered the old train station. The hawkers advertised genuine New Vegas goods, from cloth to food to small electronics. The air inside the vehicle was alive and happy with the conversations of the tourists, who gripped passports and wallets as they prepared to alight.

"You and I will wait until the holiday-goers are gone about their business," Kovich muttered. "So as to avoid any unpleasantness."

"Wouldn't want them to have their day spoiled by a flagrant act of injustice," Danny shot back, but quietly. Kovich intimidated him, more than a little, and he didn't actually want to be dragged kicking and screaming through the streets. As long as he kept his composure, he could pretend that he was there by invitation.

He pulled his suitcase out with the hand that wasn't chained and gripped the handle tightly. The worn metal was slippery in his sweat-soaked palm and he didn't want to lose it. There wasn't much in there, but it was all he had from his old life. Kovich waited until the last of the chattering women had filed off before he took a key from around his neck and unlocked it. Rubbing his wrist when the metal loop had chafed it, Danny followed the caravan master out into the sun-drenched afternoon.

Dazzled by the light, feet moving sluggishly after sitting for so long, Danny tripped over one of the steps and almost fell headlong to the pavement below. Kovich reached out a meaty hand and grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him before letting him go. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Danny studied his surroundings. The tourists were already bustling around the stalls and a pair of robots - the same sort that had opened the gates of the city to them - stood a respectful distance away. There was no one else in the immediate vicinity. He felt invisible, an unperson already. He wondered how much the average NCR citizen knew or cared about their government's treaty with Mr. House. He wondered who would react if he started screaming for help.

Kovich misinterpreted his train of thought. "I'm not going to chain you, boy. I know you can probably outrun me, but I'm warning you not to. There's no unsanctioned way in or out of this city. Either I take you to Mr. House or one of those machines drags you in. Choose dignity, and this will go easier for you."

"I'm not going to run, old man," he said firmly. "I'm just taking in the sights."

Kovich snorted and turned away, gesturing roughly for him to follow. And follow Danny did, but at his own pace, allowing the caravan master to get well ahead of him. He could read the man's impatience in his posture, but didn't care. He might have a timetable he was worrying about, might want to catch the next carriage back to the Outpost, but this time belonged to him alone, Danny decided. He'd see what he wanted to see.

There was plenty  _to_ see, even when Kovich led him off the touristy thoroughfare and down a more subdued market street which had fewer bright colors and more necessities. Here the locals went about their business, buying and selling vegetables, fruit, meat, and sturdy clothing. Odd among these essentials was a single peddlar, a woman in her forties, hawking talismans, statues, and small portraits, each bearing a familiar face rendered with exquisite detail. Alone on this street, she had a undeniably non-local customer.

"Mr. House?" a shrill-voiced matron called out. Danny remembered her vaguely as a passenger from his carriage, all in green with a hat as large as an umbrella on her head. She'd been a loud conversationalist on the journey as well, though he had barely noticed. "They're  _all_  of Mr. House? I wanted something for my daughter. Something authentically Vegas, but  _pretty_ , you know? "

"If Madame prefers, Madame can go back to the main street," the seller told her politely through the clenched teeth of her smile. "My brother has a shop there. He sells many lovely things, including some of my own work. I create  _these_  for the faithful and the respectfully curious."  _Not for the likes of you_ , read the clear subtext, and Danny stopped to listen to the exchange, interested in spite of his own troubles.

A look of puzzled greed came into the tourist's eyes. "How much for this one?" she asked, pointing to the very smallest pendant. The seller quoted an exorbitant price in NCR dollars, at which point the woman flounced away without another word, back toward the Vegas she wanted and expected. Danny lingered, ignoring Kovich's impatient call from the end of the street..

"Your painting - particularly in it its small scale - shows a high level of skill," he remarked to the woman. "Maybe you can explain something to me. Who is Mr. House to you?"

The cold, diplomatic face she'd worn for the other customer dropped away when she saw Danny. She stepped out from behind her wares, leaning forward to kiss his cheek and clasping his hand in both of hers. Either she hadn't heard his question, or this extraordinary response was her answer.

"It's you. You're the new one. You're going to  _him_. And you came to  _my_  stall. What luck!"

"Luck?" Danny echoed, dazed by her warmth. "How is that luck?"

"Never mind, dear." She turned and plucked one of her talismans from its display and pressed it into his palm. "Take this with my blessing. And remember me - Kirsten Golding - to Mr. House when you go before him." She smiled beatifically, speaking quickly now, as if there wasn't much time. "He chose my uncle for his service, many years ago. Damon. If he's still alive, tell him his brother is gone, but his niece never stopped missing him. Will you do that?"

That's when Danny felt Kovich's heavy hand fall on his shoulder and wheel him around, but he tried to shout his question as he was dragged away. "Wait! You didn't see him again? What happened? Where did he go?" But it was no use. She didn't answer, but only watched him leave with that same, peaceful expression on her face.

Kovich wouldn't let go of his upper arm, but dragged him mercilessly onward. "I'm not supposed to let you talk to the locals," he growled. Looking down at the talisman that still lay in Danny's palm, he struck it down with careless violence, sending the trinket into the gutter. "Rank superstition. I'll not deliver you with any mark of it on your person."

"Maybe next time," Danny began, trying not to let his rising anger make him do something foolish, "you should drug your prisoner and stuff them in a crate. Then you could avoid the inconvenience of getting your hands dirty with an actual person."

To his surprise, the old man laughed merrily at the image. "Were it up to me…! However, it goes against the terms of the contract. He wants you to walk in as freely as possible under the circumstances. No idea why. Don't care."

Danny craned his neck, still trying to catch a last glimpse of the woman. He didn't want to talk to Kovich anymore, but he was only one who could tell him more. "She said… she told me that her uncle was taken too. She acted like it was some kind of honor. But she hasn't seen him since! Why would they venerate Mr. House?"

"Because he keep them stupid and happy," the other grunted. "Because Mr House  _is_  this city and it suits him to style himself as a god. You've read your old stories. Gods require propitiation. These people are happy to pay whatever it costs." He grinned unpleasantly, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. "Do you feel better knowing that it's not just the Followers he harvests from?"

If anything, Danny was more afraid now than he had been before. Angrier too. It was one thing for Mr. House to take willing victims - if indeed Kirsten Golding's uncle had been willing - but quite another for him to grab people who had nothing to do with his cult. The woman's words rang in his mind. "'If he's still alive,' she said. Does he keep them forever, then?" he asked, half to himself. Kovich surprised him by answering, for once not unkindly.

"As soon as you go through the last set of doors, boy, you'll know more about it than I ever will. Here's our first checkpoint." Kovich flashed a document at the robots guarding the gate, and, after they'd conferred internally for a moment, communicating with some central intelligence, they moved to let them past.

This gate opened onto a wide, curvaceous street with more robots - robots of every size and shape - along with miscellaneous vehicles parked alongside nondescript buildings. There were, however, no humans that Danny could see, and he began to tremble. Was this to be his fate? A short, unhappy life surrounded by machines? "Have you ever seen any  _people_  here?" he whispered to his companion.

"Shut up, boy." Kovich strode forward to small gate leading off the main thoroughfare, where yet another pair of robots stood guard. Addressing the machines - or perhaps the gate itself - he called out loudly. "I'm Ard Kovich and I've got your delivery here. Let's be done with this."

As if he'd spoken the magic words, the gate opened, but only a crack. Out slipped a young woman, perhaps a year or two older than Danny himself, petite but decidedly self-assured, dressed in loose-fitting clothing of an indiscriminate gray color and a broad hat that protected her face from the sun.

Danny could tell that Kovich was startled, but trying not to show it. His voice became oily and grudgingly deferential. "This one's a little ornery. You sure you can handle him, Miss...

"Don't concern yourself on my account, Master Kovich. I'll take him from here," the woman said coolly. "You'll receive your payment at the station on your way out."

It was a dismissal and he took it as such. "'Til next year, miss," he said, tipping the brim of his hat.

She said nothing, but laid a slender hand on Danny's sleeve, guiding him through the barrier. He was relieved to be quit of Kovich's company - and to find another person here - and it didn't occur to him to resist.

When Kovich was out of earshot, he couldn't restrain himself any longer. "You're human! And I don't know you. I knew every tribute from the last five years, at least by sight. You're not one of them. But you can't be much older than I am..."

She gave him a tolerant smile, but didn't explain. "Follow me, Mr. Mueller."

"You know my name?" he said, before realizing how stupid that sounded.

She blinked at him, as if to say,  _Of course_. "I read your profile. I was drawn to your story. That's one reason I volunteered to meet you."

They passed more gates and more securitrons, moving ever closer to the the tallest tower, the monolith at the center.

"Are you a prisoner here as well?" he asked her as the bots closed yet another set of doors behind them.

This provoked a surprised laugh, a response that stung, though she seemed not to notice. "No."

"Are you a local?"

"You could say that." Seeing his look of confusion, she clarified, "I was born into Mr. House's employ. That's true for most of the people you'll meet here."

Without giving himself time to process this information, Danny went on, trying to make this feel like a normal conversation. "What's your name?"

She hushed him, stopping in a plaza at the innermost level. In front of the steps leading to the tower, Danny saw a large statue, erected in bronze. It began as a true-to-life representation of a man's face, tilted upward to the sky, then became increasingly abstract as it radiated outward, ending with the suggestion of wings spreading over his back. The figure's trunk and legs were invisible, buried in dark craggy stone.

"We  _could_ have taken a tunnel shortcut from the entrance - virtually everything we do is underground - but  _he_  likes this to be the first thing our newest residents see." She left no doubt as to who 'he' was.

"What is it?" Danny asked, since she seemed to be waiting for him to comment.

"It was the last work commissioned from an artist named Michael Angelo, who lived on the Strip over a century ago. It depicts the Courier, but Mr. House always called him 'Daedalus.' It's one of those little jokes he enjoys."

Danny considered this for a moment. He understood that reference, or thought he did. "Daedalus," he began hesitantly, "that's not a  _happy_  story, right?" He'd had a course in literature - more than one, in fact - but fiction had never been something he was particularly passionate about. Still, you couldn't get through a Followers education without being thoroughly steeped in the things that they considered important collective knowledge. Mythology had always been one of those things, replete as it was with cautionary tales and symbols.

She smiled. "Robert House was… he  _is_  a fundamentally optimistic personality. He considers it both a cautionary tale  _and_  an inspiration."

 _Robert_. The way she threw the name around made him sound like a favorite uncle, or a wise old friend, instead of the inhuman dictator he was to the rest of the world. "Have you met him?" he asked.

"Of course. He was my first teacher."

Before he could respond, she had moved on, and he followed. "Can  _I_  talk to him?" He had never thought of the ruler of Vegas as a  _person_ , subject to his own likes and dislikes. Subject, perhaps, to persuasion. Maybe a lifetime of imprisonment wasn't inevitable.

"Oh, sure. He always wants to talk to the new ones in the control room on their first day. After that, you can visit him whenever you like. Most people don't, though, at least not after their first year or two. We are the inheritors. We call the shots now. He embraces it. Laughs it off as 'planned obsolescence.' Longstanding affection aside,  _you_  are potentially more important to us than Mr. House."

She gave him a moment to process this, then turned to him, smiling warmly. "I'm Lila Avenatti. Are you ready to meet your host?"

* * *

When Danny stepped into Mr. House's chamber, a corner of a penthouse high above the city below, he didn't know what to expect. Blank white walls, the hum of terminals, a disembodied voice - all of these would have seemed appropriate. Instead, crossing the threshold brought him into a sort of cozy den, complete with a crackling fire in the fireplace (all artificial, of course), rich, plush carpet, and warm colors on every wall. The only ornamentation that seemed not to fit - which seemed cheap and tawdry by comparison - was a row of snowglobes above the hearth, their glassy domes spotless of dust.

The feminine-sounding robot that had greeted him led him toward one of the two red-upholstered chairs that were centered in the room around a beautifully-carved chessboard. "Would you like anything to drink, sir? We have a wide variety of drinks, both alcoholic and otherwise."

Danny found that his throat was dry and gritty from the road. "Just water, please. Cold, if you have it." It was cool inside this room - almost uncomfortably so - but he still felt hot and flustered from the journey and the never-ceasing surprises that kept coming.

"Of course. Mr. House will be with you shortly."

Danny didn't see any screens on which his host might manifest himself, but he supposed anything was possible. Perhaps he would commandeer a 'bot. Perhaps he would content himself with audio. The only thing that he was reasonably sure of was that Mr. House had long since left his body behind. He could only wait.

He sipped the water, his distracted thoughts taking a dark turn. He wondered who would try to stop him - and how fast - if he tried to plunge the ornamental letter opener on the desk into his neck. Not that he had any inclination to do any such thing. Despite Kovich's horror story, Danny found that fear only made him cling even harder to life. Meeting Lila had done little to pull back the curtain, but he no longer expected instant execution.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," a rich, avuncular voice announced from the opposite wall. There was no door there - until there was, solid and wooden and richly carved. It opened and a tall, thin figure stepped forth. Danny took in the dark hair, the mustache, and the pre-war leisure suit - it was Mr. House alright. But in the flesh? No.

"A hologram?" he guessed automatically, then slapped a hand over his mouth lest the facsimile take offense.

"Right you are, young man, right you are. Or close enough. The emitters in this room give me the semblance of corporeality. Have a seat. You didn't have to rise on my account."

Danny realized that he was, in fact, standing, holding his glass in front of him like a shield, and he sat down again, feeling abashed.

Mr. House took the seat opposite him and smiled proudly, long fingers steepled in front of him. "I bet you're wondering why you're here. This year's greeter, dear girl that she is, has a flair for the dramatic. It would suit her personality to preserve the mystery for as long as possible. I bet she didn't even tell you the significance of my statue."

He cleared his throat. A lecture in art appreciation wasn't what he had expected from this interview. "Uh, yes, she did actually. The Courier. Daedalus. It's nice," he finished lamely.

"He was her great-great-grandfather." Mr. House picked up a tumbler of amber liquid that had appeared at his elbow and sipped it, studying Danny's reaction.

Danny had never thought of the mythical Courier as a family man or a father or indeed anything but a legend responsible for turning the tide in the Mojave. He had faded into history after the second Battle of Hoover Dam, choosing obscurity over honor and position and citizenship in the NCR. Everyone had thought him a maverick. An independent. Despite this reputation, he'd apparently been a faithful servant to Mr. House, for all that the history books had left that fact out.

"He stayed here after he secured Vegas for you?"

"He traveled for a few years, but he came back, full of stories about the continent, which was then relatively untamed. He and his friends and children were the first of my faithful." Switching tacks rapidly, he indicated the game laid out in front of them. "Do you play, Mr. Mueller?"

"A little," he said reluctantly. He didn't particularly want to clash wits with a machine. He fumbled for some excuse. "It looks like you're already in the middle of a match."

Mr. House shook his head and began to reset the pieces. Danny did a double-take. Unless he was mistaken, unless the gameboard itself was a hologram too, Mr. House was physically moving the pieces. "I don't think we  _will_  finish it, unfortunately. The young lady I was playing with - a former Follower like yourself - has not been to see me for the better part of six months. You might know her by name: Celeste Bennett. Still," he went on, "if she does come back, I can recreate the game from memory."

Danny did know the name, though they'd never met. She had been last year's tribute. He hadn't dared to ask Lila about her, fearing to hear his own fate from her lips. "She's still here?" he blurted out.

"They  _all_  are, Mr. Mueller. They and their children and grandchildren. Very few choose to leave after they've done their obligatory year." He looked up with a wistful smile. "Soon, you'll be free to go meet her - and the others. But I would be much obliged if you'd talk with a lonely old man for a few minutes. Maybe then you'll be on your way to understanding. You may begin. Ask whatever question you wish." He pushed a cream-colored pawn out two spaces. "It's your move."

Danny grasped his right-hand bishop blindly - it was solid wood, and as real as the chair he was sitting on - and realized he had no legal opening move with that. Instead, he grabbed the knight beside it and jumped onto the board. He had no strategy. Didn't care about the game. He did have questions, though, and Mr. House's surprising display of vulnerability gave him the courage to ask them.

"Why?" he spat out.

Patient and calm, Mr. House answered back. "Why what? I have an idea what you mean, but it might help you to spell it out."

"Why did you do things this way?"  _Why pretend to be a god, why foster ignorance?_  So many questions raced through his mind. "Why do you kidnap us? You'd have no shortage of volunteers if it were known that you weren't, well…  _eating_  the people that come this way. The Followers, by and large, are a curious lot." Weeks of fear turned to fury, and he forgot who he was speaking to. "I thought I was coming here to  _die_. We all did. Why treat us like this?"

The long, angular face across the table crumpled into an expression of deep regret, though this didn't stop him from taking his turn, moving the queen diagonally from her place. "Secrecy is of the highest importance to our endeavor," he began slowly. "I did not want to let it be known  _why_  I wanted educated men and women. I did try to whisper suggestions into the ears of the high-ranked Followers in the know - the ones I trust - about how to make my summons less terrible. However, I'm afraid rumor and fear were stronger by far than my subtle efforts."

Danny jumped a second knight out, a part of him liking the symmetry this created despite his consternation. "Why choose me?"

Mr. House drew his bishop out before answering. "You have no family or dependents. Your area of study fills a gap in my retinue. Your genetic makeup is clear of undesirable alleles." He coughed politely. "You will lose on my next turn unless you act intelligently."

Ignoring the jibe about the game, Danny burst out, "How the  _fuck_  do you know about my genes?  _I_  don't know about my genes. No one does." As far as he knew, even the most well-equipped medical facilities relied on guesswork, probability, and family history to draw conclusions about genetic diseases. Everyone knew it was theoretically possible to unravel the secrets of a drop of blood, but the technology just wasn't there.

"The Followers turn in a DNA sample with each prospective profile, as I've asked them to from the very beginning. We have the means to run those tests here. It's one of the many perks of belonging to my outfit. Here, at least, it's still the twenty-first century… and beyond it, in some respects."

Mr. House's smug satisfaction made his blood boil. Danny angrily jabbed a pawn out one space in front of his king, blocking the looming checkmate. He didn't much care about the game, but he didn't want to lose too quickly either. "That's incredibly invasive. You tested us without our knowledge. And they… my people… helped you to do that. In fact, they've worked with you every step of the way.  _Why_?"

"Simple. They believe in me. In my vision."

Confusion and disgust made him blunt. "Just like those people down there  _believe_  in you?"

Mr. House took one of Danny's knights, placing the piece to the side with a gentle tap. "No. The Followers' faith runs along quite different lines. They know I'm nothing special, and certainly nothing mystical, but they had to choose, a long time ago, between participation and exclusion in the grand project of humanity's future. They chose the former."

"The Followers are rational. Why would they join hands with a charlatan like you?" Danny was thinking of the jewelry seller's wide-eyed faith. "You've taken advantage of those people out there.  _They've_  built an empire for you. How would they feel to know you're nothing but a scheming, manipulative computer program?"

Mr. House studied the board - for appearance's sake, Danny suspected, as he was sure Mr. House knew his next move already. "Contrary to appearances, I'm still a human being, albeit one who's outlived his body by centuries. I've provided for the prosperity of generations upon generations. I have immediate access to the collective wisdom of thousands of years of civilization. Why  _shouldn't_  the Followers help me? Why  _shouldn't_ my people revere me?" He made his play and sat back, arms crossed over his chest. "Worship is as valuable as resource as food or water. My people are fed, educated, and cared for. They are safe. Their faith doesn't hurt them in the slightest. It  _does_  make my small nation strong."

Without looking at the board, Danny moved a piece blindly - and probably illegally, based on the way Mr. House frowned - thinking furiously. "To what end, then? What's all this for?"

Another catlike smile, this one broader. " _Now_  you've asked the right question. It's for everything, my boy! The future! The greatest human project of all time! Join with me, and you can serve the salvation of humanity.

"I won't tell you everything at once. Not until you've been here longer. What I  _will_  tell you, however, is that my plans are such that of the hundreds of people I've recruited against their will, less than one percent have chosen to leave after their year. Yes, I see your skepticism, boy. Whatever you think, there  _is_  a choice. An expectation of secrecy, but no other compulsion."

Mr. House began to reset the pieces. "You've lost interest in our game. That's fine. Another time. It's time for you to meet the other 'prisoners,' as you think of them - they and their descendents are waiting to meet you." He stood up. "Maria will show you to the elevator. Goodbye, Mr. Mueller. It's a pleasure to have met you. I hope that our next conversation will be more productive."

* * *

After leaving Mr. House, Danny was struck by a dizzying sense of unreality that hung over his head as the female robot shuffled him back toward the elevator. Having never been on a working elevator before today, he didn't noticed that he'd missed the ground floor stop until it had come and gone.

"Um, hello? Mr. House? Anybody? Where am I going?" He suspected that he was being spied on through a camera in the dark-tinted bulb set into the ceiling, but there was no answer. Part of him wanted to take a defensive posture in the corner of the tiny, descending room and weep at the absurdity of it all. He realized that he had nothing, not even his suitcase, which Lila had taken with her when she left him upstairs. She hadn't seemed the sort to play a dirty trick on him, but she was, he reminded himself, a willing participant in this operation.

When the elevator finally came to a stop, not with a clatter or a clang, but silently, Danny straightened from where he'd been leaning on the wall and prepared himself to face what came next. He'd seen and heard too much for one day, had been too afraid for too long, and he hoped only that someone would show him to a cell, so long as it had a bed. When the doors slid open, he stumbled forward into a well-lit room, surprised but sullen. No more wonders for him.  _Just leave me alone_.

More's the pity - there was a crowd waiting for him down there, a large circle of curious faces, showing too many teeth. It took all of Danny's self-control not to duck back into the elevator and ride it back up again. Instead, he stepped forward and waited with downcast eyes for someone to explain the mystery. He no longer expected the blow to fall at any moment, but he was tired of feeling like he was being subtly mocked.

A short, but powerfully-built man with wild black hair stepped forward. "So, what did you think of the big man upstairs?"

The first rule of not antagonizing the members of a cult, Danny decided on the spot, was to avoid insulting their beliefs. "He's very… um… idealistic, isn't he?" This was met with suppressed laughter all around and he froze, confused.

"That's one word for it," the speaker said agreeably. "Don't let him turn you off. We have solid science and a workable plan on our side - his gift to us at the beginning - and we haven't let his drift toward eccentricity change that." He stuck out a work-callused hand. "Charles Corum. Welcome. There's a lot to tell you, but right now you need some rest. I'll show you to your room. You'll have safety, privacy, and, when you're ready, answers."

His room was clean and spare and, once he had locked the door behind him, it gave him the feeling (if not the reality) of security. There was a tiny, private bathroom, with - wonder of wonders - a shower. As for furnishings, found a bed, a nightstand, a bureau, a chair, and a desk with a light meal laid out on it, but he only had eyes for the first of these. Though the digital clock on his wall told him it was still early evening, he didn't care. In less than half an hour, he was asleep.


	2. Part II

It was Lila who came to collect him the following morning, for breakfast, she said, and a meeting. This was a subdued version of the self-assured woman he had met the previous day. Instead of leading the way with her strident pace, she matched him step for step, and seemed almost nervous beside him, wringing her hands with agitation.

"I owe you an apology, Mr. Mueller," she said after a minute. "I was quick… careless… and maybe cruel yesterday. Please believe that I did not mean to add to your pain and apprehension. I was so happy to meet you that I didn't think about how you must be feeling."

Danny didn't know what to say to that. Part of him wanted to punish her while another part was numb to the whole thing.  _At least she apologized_ , he reminded himself.  _She made a mistake and admitted it._  He settled on a distant, somewhat disingenuous reply.

"Were you? I didn't notice. I was just glad you weren't a robot."

Lila took on the role of a guide, pointing out corridors off their main path. They normally took their meals together in a cafeteria down  _that_  way, she explained. "That's where you'll go for lunch. This morning is more of a business affair."

She deposited him at a pair of double doors thrown wide. "I'm not invited. See you later, maybe. Good luck!"

There were a dozen people in attendance - department-heads and leaders, he was told during a round of introductions. Among these, Danny recognized the man who had greeted him at the elevator the previous night. Younger than most others present in his early thirties, he explained that he worked with the generators.

"My job is to keep the lights on," he said with false modesty. "I hope you'll consider helping me in that endeavor."

Verne Weaver, the tall, thin man who presided over the meeting, carried himself with a proud, almost military bearing, his iron-gray mustache lending to his air of authority. Unlike Lila's, his apology had no depth of feeling. It began with "We regret" and ended with "we believed our ends were justified" and Danny was seething inside by the time he was given leave to speak.

"It's not Mr. House I should be angry at, is it? You've been hiding behind his name, but you're the ones responsible for everything. You're the reason I'm here. He's nothing but a figurehead."

Weaver didn't flinch from the accusation. "We are indeed responsible. Mr. House, the author of our cause, has abdicated that burden to us in gradual installments over the past century. What he did not give, we acquired. We now control everything of substance and make every decision.

"Your anger at us is understandable. Our selection has disrupted the course of your young life. We have caused you great distress." He paused and sighed. "In the interests of full disclosure - and you would eventually learn this on your own - there was some uncertainty as to whether there even  _would_  be a tribute this year. There will be no more; I can promise you that. You are the very last. In the end, it was a question of need that tipped the scales." At this juncture, he nodded to Corum, who stood up in his place again, a slightly abashed look on his good-natured face.

"If you need someone to blame, son, you can blame me. I requested another apprentice for our power room. We had no satisfactory candidate of the right age within our own numbers. And so we-"

"Kidnapped me," Danny finished bluntly. He was still reeling at the revelation that he was here only because of a last-minute decision. "Don't try to make this something nice or noble."

"Yes, we kidnapped you," Corum agreed. "My hope is that you'll understand once you learn more." He sat down again and Weaver resumed speaking.

"Two years ago, I was elected to a ten-year term as Chairman. That role gives me a certain amount of executive power over not only our holdings in Vegas, but also our extended network of contacts in the NCR. I am responsible for you, Mr. Mueller, for as long as you sojourn with us, but you won't see me much. You'll have your year with us, and then… well, we'll see, won't we?" He glanced at his watch. "If you have any questions for me, ask them now."

Danny wanted to ask what Weaver had meant about the "last tribute," but he didn't quite dare. Instead, he gave voice to his confusion on another matter. "Do you speak for Mr. House in negotiations with the NCR and others?  _As_  Mr. House?"

"Yes. We wield his voice and visage. We didn't want to give up the appearance of continuity. Apparent immortality and omniscience is a very powerful thing."

"Does the NCR know?" Danny was struggling to reconcile the new information with what he'd always assumed about New Vegas. He imagined the story he could sell if he ever did get back:  _The man behind the curtain is a lie!_

"Does your President Morrissey know she's actually speaking to me or one of my aides? No, of course not. All the same, we're not so different. She is also responsive to a committee of advisors and subject to the will of the people through their representatives. We're both democratic societies, after all."

"She's not  _my_  president," Danny said automatically. Like most Followers, he was conditioned to pretend to no political allegiance, even if he was indeed a citizen by birthright. "Anyway, from what I've seen, you're a theocracy."

"Yes, well, there is that too." Now Weaver seemed embarrassed. He glanced at his watch again. "Encouraging idolatry was  _his_  idea and now it's difficult to uncouple from it, as distasteful as it seems. It's one of the few things we still let him actively participate in. With supervision, of course."

Danny almost felt sorry for the ghost he'd met in the tower. He'd seemed earnest, interesting, and intelligent. Down here, however, they treated him like a child who only needed a few distractions to be happy. Pondering over this, he asked the question that puzzled him the most. "Why would Mr. House give up this kind of power? In the beginning, I mean, when it was still his choice."

Weaver looked at the ceiling. "He  _is_  rational. Sometimes selectively, but rational all the same. After his friend, the Courier, died almost a century ago, he admitted for the first time his own vulnerability to emotional weakness. That's when he began to entrust our predecessors with some of the decision-making. It snowballed from there, until the human side of this partnership had control of almost everything. More than anything, Mr. House wants this to  _work_ , and he's always known he couldn't do that in isolation."

"What is it that you're trying to do? Can you tell me, or is that a secret?"

"You'll know, and soon enough. We've found it advisable to ease people into that knowledge. Miss Avenatti - or a different guide, if you prefer - will finish showing you the common areas today, after which you'll be granted a few days' respite before your real education begins."

"I just have one question," Danny began. He willed himself to sound defiant, but the quiver in his voice stole some of the intended effect. "Were you a tribute?" He turned on Corum. "Or you?"

"Not me. My grandmother," Weaver said evenly. "She's been gone for twenty years, but I always appreciated the perspective she brought as a one-time outsider."

"My ancestors were among the first recruits," Corum said proudly. "Volunteers, even. They knew the Courier. So, no lad, we don't know how you feel. Others do. They'll seek you out. Maybe then you'll begin to understand."

* * *

Three days.

That was to be his time of respite, the break he'd have before Corum would show him to the work he would be doing for the next year. Though he couldn't bring himself to  _thank_  anybody - if it weren't for them, he'd be in Dayglo by now - Danny did appreciate it. For almost a month now, he'd been keyed up, waiting for the blow to fall, and now he found that he very much needed the chance to unwind.

He went where he wanted - or almost everywhere he wanted. The outer gates wouldn't open to him, and the sympathetic guards explained that he wasn't "ready" to go out among the tourists yet. But at least he wasn't confined to underground. There were gardens, functional but beautiful places teeming with fresh herbs and vegetables. There was a shady, half-mile path that snaked in and around the grounds, with ample nooks and crannies for private reflection.

And writing as well. The letter he couldn't write on the train - and which had stayed inside his suitcase for the entirety of the carriage ride - now found its way out again. He scratched out what little he had (stupid, sentimental crap), and began again.

_"Dear Rachel."_  He got that far and stopped. It was a fair enough beginning, but was it good enough for  _this_? He rubbed out the salutation (tearing a hole in the paper in the process) and continued below, leaving the address blank for now.

_"I'm okay. They're not inhuman here. A little inhumane in their methods, maybe, but not intentionally so. None of us really understood what they were doing here. Maybe if we had-"_ He broke off again. He still didn't understand what Mr. House's private army of brainwashed scientists were doing. He'd seen many wonderful things, but as a collection of separate parts they were more confusing than illuminating.

He tried to continue.  _"...that is, if we'd been told that there was work going on in Vegas that needed scientists, there would have been volunteers, and not just from disillusioned kids looking for a way out of a rut. They've built something really impressive here. I know that just from what little I've seen."_ He sighed. This was pointless. She'd never read it. And yet... the words tumbled out of him like an avalanche, his already untidy script becoming large and erratic in his agitation.

_"...Mr. House says I only 'owe' him a year. That I'm free to go at the end of that year. He says they've all had that choice, and that only a handful have ever taken it - not one in the past forty years! I don't believe him. I can't imagine what I could possibly see or experience that would make me want to stay._

" _There_ is  _some mystery here, but I don't care what it is. Whatever it is, it can't justify-"_

He stopped writing abruptly as a shadow fell over his page. He looked up, expecting Lila and already opening his mouth to ask her to leave him alone. She hadn't spoken to him since she'd finished her bashful tour the previous day, but he'd seen her watching him at mealtimes. It wasn't that he was particularly angry with her - he wasn't, or at least not any more than he was angry with all of Mr. House's 'children' - but she was still one of  _them_. More than that, she had laughed at him on the worst day of his life and that was what he remembered when he saw her.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. The person standing in front of him was a complete stranger.

"Hey there new guy. Dan, right? Martin Aberforth. Nice ta' meetcha. Got a minute?" Standing in front of him, rocking impatiently on his heels, was a pale man in his early thirties, slightly obese and sporting a pudding-bowl cut of thinning orange hair.

"Sure." Danny wasn't used to having people approach him and it took a long, awkward moment for him to make room for the newcomer, shifting over to one end of the bench. He tried to tuck the sheet of paper discreetly into his notebook, but wasn't fast enough to conceal it.

"Writing a letter home?" he asked with an unpleasant leer, trying to lean over Danny's shoulder, his breath a sour cloud. "The censors will have to have a long, hard look at that before it goes out.  _You_  understand. Don't want to give away any spoilers before the end." His eyes glinted mischievously at this, but his tone was flat and cynical.

"The end?" Danny echoed. There it was again. An implied timeline, hanging like a noose over his head. The notion that even the sense of stability and tradition he felt from this place might not last made him feel freshly afraid of when the final blow would fall.

Aberforth slapped his knee and chuckled, full of cheer again. "So you  _don't_  understand. I forgot. You've only been here a day or two. Well, it's more than  _my_  job's worth to tell you prematurely. They do like their theater here. One wrong move from me and Weaver's lackeys will stick me somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere. I  _like_  living with air conditioning. I only got a cushy spot in Vegas because my grandfather was someone important a generation ago. Nepotism, I thank you."

"You were born here?" Danny asked, eyeing the newcomer with fascination. It was interesting - and somewhat refreshing - to meet a native who wasn't one hundred percent committed to the envisioned utopia. He might not get actual honesty from this malcontent, but at least his exaggerations might skew in the opposite direction from the others'. For people like this, he knew from experience with bureaucrats at the university, a little flattery went a long way. "You must know everything there is to know about this place."

This, however, had a souring effect on Aberforth's mood. The generically pleasant look pasted on his features vanished, replaced by something much nastier. "Naturally. Not that it does me much good. I never was good enough for the likes of them. I wasn't hand-picked like  _you_."

This sounded like an accusation and Danny resented the unfairness. "I'm sorry? I mean, I don't know what you expect me to do about that. I didn't ask to be brought here. Quite the contrary."

"Of course you didn't," he said reassuringly, rising to go. "It's all  _them_.  _Their_  scheming.  _Their_ lies. My advice to you, boy? Keep your head down. Do your time. Get out of here when you can and don't look back. No matter what you think you see or learn. Even if I had the choice, you wouldn't catch me leaving a sure thing for a dream. No sir."

Danny watched him stroll away whistling, his hands in his pockets. Soon after, he got up to leave himself, hands shaking as he packed away his things. He certainly couldn't resume his letter now. The morning had been spoiled as far as he was concerned. Aberforth had seen to that.

* * *

Just as the Chairman had said, Danny saw no more of Weaver. True to their word, the powers that be permitted him to do more or less what he wanted unperturbed. A few people sought him out with a kind word of welcome, and introductions he struggled to keep up with, but for the most part they left him alone. This had to have been due to an order from on high, Danny decided; from the number of eyes on him in public areas, there was a lot of open curiosity there. He appreciated the space, though in the end it served to make him feel even more like an animal in a zoo.

He slowly became aware of a whole world around him, almost a city beneath a city, as complete and complex a community as he'd ever seen. Entertainment, education, industry, and administration, people of all ages going about their work and play. It reminded Danny somewhat of what he'd heard about the old vaults - mostly the being underground and more or less self-contained - but that was where the similarity ended. Unlike the vaults, this was something vital and growing.

There was also the reality that many of them actually did travel beyond the city and its environs, though for what purposes he didn't know. From the places they mentioned, however, Danny slowly realized that the committee that made up "Mr. House's" public face had a longer reach than he - or perhaps any outsider - had previously imagined, and considerable influence on the NCR in particular via their network of contacts among the higher echelons of the Followers of the Apocalypse.

Was this to become widely know, he knew, there would be consequences. The Followers had been allowed to flourish and spread for so long because they weren't perceived as out-and-out anarchists, only a mildly subversive class of intellectuals, producing usable results enough to make up for their sometimes provocative behavior. Some of Danny's teachers had muttered into their sleeves about their leaders being too hand-in-glove with the NCR, but none of them, he was positive, had imagined this level of complicity with a secular power. It depressed him and made him wonder if he ever could return to the rank and file.

On the third morning since his arrival, Corum approached him as he was beginning in on his breakfast. The fruit was canned, but the eggs were fresh, something Danny looked forward to every day. Setting his own tray down, the stocky man took the chair across from him.

"Are you ready to get to work, Mueller?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "I thought we'd start with a tour of all the other departments - water treatment, hydroponics, and the like - and then I'll introduce you to the team you'll be joining." He beamed proudly. "We provide power to the entire complex and much of Vegas as well. We still sell most of the Dam's output to the NCR, but we're not dependent on it. That was an early priority of Mr. House, after the Legion nearly destroyed it."

Danny found that he wasn't very hungry any more. Setting his fork down, he swallowed the last bite with an effort. "Fusion, I presume? I hope you know I've only had three years' practical experience, and that part-time. My  _real_  training was to have begun… well, this month. At a refurbished plant in Dayglo." He thought angrily about the applications and interviews he had spent much of his last semester on, and repressed the urge to refuse. He wanted something to do, needed a routine to feel like himself again.

Some of his feelings must have made it to the surface, however, as Corum looked down at his plate, to all appearances genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry, Mueller. Really, I am. The time was short and it was my opinion that we needed another person. Someone young and trainable like you."

"What do you mean, 'the time was short'?" Danny asked hotly. "You've been down here for a hundred years. What's the rush?"

There was a glint in the other man's eye when he looked up and he seemed about to say something, but then thought better of it. "It's maddening, isn't it? The not-knowing. I have friends like you who said the same about their early days. Still, this goes better if we take it slowly. Even they admit this. Believe me, we've tried it both ways. You'll know at the end of the day. I give you my word."

The tour took most of the morning. Danny saw massive fish talks, plants, filtration equipment for cleaning and distributing water and air, public areas he hadn't been to before, manufacturing centers the size of above-ground warehouses, a well-equipped medical bay, and offices that all seemed to look the same. He shook the hands of more people than he could count, knowing that there was no way he would remember them all. Through at all, he was distracted, wondering what surprise was waiting at the conclusion.

In a corridor outside of the elementary school classrooms, a young girl - not more than eight years old - broke away from a clump of her fellow students to greet him, a grin on her face.

"Are you coming?  _I_ am. I'll still have to share a room with my sister, but that's okay. Are you going to work for my daddy? He's  _really_  smart. Don't let him fool you with that sleepy look of his."

"Not yet, Luz," Corum said warningly. "Remember the rule."

As they took the elevator down to where the generators were housed, Danny spoke quietly to his guide. "Cute kid. It's more than a little humiliating that a child knows more than I do."

"My daughter - like all the children here - has grown up knowing. She doesn't remember a time when she didn't. Not much longer now."

"Are you people going somewhere? Establishing a new settlement? Because I'm not  _opposed_  to the idea. It's not like I have much to tie me to my old home. I'd just like to know." Privately, he thought that he'd rather undertake nothing of the sort with unapologetic kidnappers, but it seemed better to play along.

Corum was friendly but unrelenting. "Come on. Time to show you the old grindstone. You'll have clearance of your own soon enough; for now, follow me."

The large wing devoted to power production was kept at an uncomfortably low temperature. It was better for the machines this way, Charles explained. Danny shivered from cold and nervousness, touching the dosimeter clipped to his collar with a superstitious gesture, wishing he'd accepted the offer of a spare lab coat. He'd expected their equipment to be safe and in good working order and wasn't disappointed. He'd never seen the plant he had been destined for, but it wouldn't have been as nice or as large as this. Nothing in the NCR was, so far as he knew, and possibly nothing in the world at large.

"Who knew I'd been given a promotion?" he muttered, but too quietly for his enthusiastic guide to hear.

There seemed to be at least twice as many workers in this space as he would have expected. They weren't working at the moment, however, and it was clear that he was the reason, as every eye in the room was fixed on him.

"This is Tonya Hudson," Corum said jovially, leading him to a tall, stately woman with her silver hair in a short braid. "She's in charge down here. Taught me everything I know."

Temperamentally, this woman couldn't have been more different from her associate. She graced him with a tight, reserved smile and a tone that seemed to suggest some hidden irony. "I doubt it means much right now, but welcome. I've stood where you're standing. Class of '56, from the Followers University in Angeles, and look at me now! But you have the chance to go much further than I ever did. You've come at a… propitious time, shall we say. We'll be seeing a lot of each other in the immediate future, but perhaps less after that."

Danny was puzzled. He looked at Corum and back at the woman. "No offense, ma'am, but I thought I was going to be assisting  _him_."

"I work in a different area with a different team," Corum said unhelpfully. "I hope you'll join me and the others there once you're acclimated to our practices and philosophy. In any case, we're going there for a preview next. But first - don't you want to meet everybody? They're all here. Everybody directly involved in power production came to see you."

And so went the usual, dizzying round of introductions. At the end of them Danny found himself in a quiet corner, desperately clutching a cup of some hot, bitter beverage he couldn't have identified to save his life as Hudson explained the security measures to him.

"...and this will be your temporary badge. It will gain you access to only such areas as are appropriate. An expansion of those privileges are dependent on your eventual decision. Here and in the place Charles will show you next, we are more careful than in other places."

"Thanks," he said automatically, slipping the lanyard over his neck and wondering exactly what act of sabotage they believed him capable. "Can I ask you a question? You've been here a long time. Why did you stay?"

"The usual story: I believed in what they were doing. I had nothing better to return to. It was here I met the man who became my husband. He died last year, just short of our fortieth anniversary." Danny opened his mouth to offer his weak condolences, but she superseded his comment. "Before you ask, no, I don't regret it. It was important work. Many have less to show for a lifetime than I do. Even if I don't..." she trailed off, staring into space.

"Don't what?"

"I've known since the beginning that I wouldn't get to participate in the final goal, even with the earliest prospective completion dates. Some of those in my generation and the next have struggled to come to terms with that, but I never did."

"Would it do me any good to ask what the goal  _is_?" Danny asked wearily, when she didn't seem inclined to expand on the thought.

"No, but I'll walk with you and Charles to your next destination. You're about to have a strange day, young man. The strangest of your life. It will be painful, in more ways than one. Whatever else you think about us - and you have the right to be quite upset, speaking as one tribute to another - remember this as you go forward: I'm sane. So is Charles and everybody else along for the ride."

She had said "walk," but this turned out to not be the case. Once they were past yet another checkpoint, they reached a long, straight corridor with a pedestrian path on one side and a double row of tracks on the other. Danny couldn't see where it ended. The low, domed ceiling reminded him of old subway tunnels he'd seen, but he didn't think this was a pre-war site. It felt much more recent than that.

"We're going to a… ah, secondary work site," Corum explained, buckling himself into a seat on a small, open-roofed vehicle that stood waiting. "It's about three miles. Some people walk or jog for the exercise. I  _should_ , but not today." He patted his gut. "My wife certainly wants me to. Maybe tomorrow." Once they were all seated, he pressed a button on the front of the car, which took off with a slight lurch.

Danny watched the lights on the ceiling whizzing along and tried to estimate how fast they were going. It  _felt_  faster than the train to the Outpost had been, but that might have been the lack of a frame of reference here.

"What's above us? When was this built?" Even by pre-War standards, this tunnel would have been a colossal feat of engineering. Danny could hardly imagine its construction using the tools of today.

Hudson spoke up primly from across the aisle between them. "At this point, we're at the city limits. Soon we'll be passing under fields on the north side. To answer your other question, Mr. House laid the groundwork long ago and we finished it. Like everything else you see."

"We didn't always have the cars," Corum chimed in. "Back in the dark ages, everyone had to  _walk_. Aboveground, even. Can you imagine? Of course, you do need  _some_  sunlight," he conceded. "But that's what UV lamps are for."

The carts behind them were full of the people he'd met a few minutes before, he noticed, presumably on their way to the 'secondary site'. They were passing a lot of other commuters taking the slow route, Danny noticed. A few were even riding bicycles. It was more traffic than he would have expected for merely another power plant.

"Why so far from the city?" he asked Hudson, who seemed more likely to be forthcoming. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not particularly. It's just - well, you'll see. Have you ever seen the inside of a vault, Danny?"

He nodded. "13. The Followers still use it as an archive. We visited it when I was in school."

"The place we're going to is a lot like a vault. Every system you've seen today has an analog up ahead. It's very nearly independent, even in terms of power, food, and water, from any outside input. It's bigger than most of those were, however. When everything's in place - and it nearly is - it's meant to permanently house between twelve and fifteen hundred people, though only a few families currently have living quarters there."

"Uh… does Mr. House know something the rest of us don't? Is there another war coming?" He was half-joking, but his voice trembled a little. The tracks had been sloping upwards as they spoke, and now the vehicle was slowing to a halt. The fear he felt of the unknown quantity ahead reminded him of when he had disembarked from the train in Freeside.

Hudson fielded this question as she stepped down onto the pavement. "No, there will be no nuclear war in our lifetimes, not that this would do much to protect against such an eventuality. Unlike the vaults, this was constructed very close to the surface. Charles, you know I don't have the clearance to go further. Would you mind-?"

"Of course, milady," Corum answered with a gallant gesture. He led them through a metal door guarded by turrets and a pair of a securitrons. They went up a ramp, where he slid his card once more. He turned with a grin back to Danny, who'd hesitated a few feet behind. "Welcome to the  _Icarus_ , Danny Mueller. This could be your new home, should you choose it."

_Small chance of that_ , Danny thought. He saw more fish - tilapia splashing around in great vaults and shrimp swarming at the underwater roots of a grain he didn't recognize. There were lot more plants in the hydroponics bay than he'd previously seen, as well as huge indoor gardens. At lunchtime, they stopped and ate a simple meal at a spotless table in their sparsely-occupied mess hall. It was altogether more of the same, though cleaner, newer, and more compact on every level. Finally, they stopped at the power center and he stood looking around, somewhat bemused. Half of the people he'd met before had ended up here and were doing their jobs, ignoring him completely except for the odd sidelong glance.

He cleared his throat. "Okay, it's all really great. Top of the line, truly. What's it all for? Just for accommodating future population growth?" He wasn't sure why they were dead set on expanding so much below-ground. Sure, it was cooler and more secure, but the effort that it would take to build and maintain such a place could have been better spent, surely.

Corum took a roll of paper from a desk in the corner and beckoned him to follow. "Let's go topside for a minute. There's something I want to show you."

Outside of the complex, near to where they'd left the carts behind, there was a elevator. This brought them to the surface where the sun stood at its zenith, beating mercilessly down. The older man began climbing a small watchtower, puffing slightly on the steps, and Danny followed.

"Look, boy. What do you see?"

Behind them, there were fields - hardy, drought-resistant legumes and grains, mostly. Ahead, however, there was only a long, broad expanse of bare, sunken earth. Here and there, dully-gleaming, flat metal peeked through the thin layer of soil.

"Is that the roof of the  _Icarus_?" Danny asked with growing apprehension. Maybe it was saying the name aloud, but he was thinking of mythology again and he didn't like where his imagination was taking him. Surely, they wouldn't have been so foolish as to imagine-

"That's right. Or close enough. It's the roof of the shell that houses it. There's just enough dirt to hide it from casual observers. Note the fence all around us. The securitrons. It's well-guarded." Corum unrolled the paper he'd brought from below. "Here's a basic blueprint of what we've shown you today, lad. It's a copy of the one Mr. House had prepared by discreet experts a long time ago. We've made adjustments as necessary. Notice the scale. It's  _very_  spacious for what it is, for what it's meant to do. Nothing like what you've read about before. Nothing like anything that's ever existed in human history."

Danny looked for a long time. He studied the ground below and then he looked down at the paper again. "No."

The enthusiasm in Corum's voice was obvious, full of passion and zeal. "It's nearly done. Over a hundred years of labor and preparation, and we're the generation to see it to completion. Next summer, our machines will tear away the shell and-"

" _No_." A strange feeling was settling over Danny. He felt mulish and angry, could do nothing but repeat his rejection.

"-and it will take off. The boosters will get us past the atmosphere and we'll shed them in orbit once they're spent. A little space junk, more or less, won't hurt this world any. No one's following us any time soon to be bothered by it." The big man raised a hand as if he wanted to pat him on the shoulder, and then he lowered it. "The  _Icarus_  is a colony spaceship, Danny. Bound for a distant planet circling a different star. That's where Mr. House is sending us. I won't live to see the end, nor my children or their children. But somewhere down the road - a hundred years, our earliest estimates say - humans  _will_  walk on a new world.

"We're not forcing you to do anything you don't want to do a year from now, but we'd obviously like you to come with us.

"No, don't answer yet. Give it some time. Think it over. You can take up to six months, Weaver says - then you'll have to make a decision one way or another. Come on. Let's get out of this blasted heat."

Lost in a daze, Danny didn't remember the descent back underground, and was barely aware of sharing a car with Hudson on the way back to the main complex. To her credit, she didn't try to talk to him, or stop him when he took off at the end of the ride.

He forced himself to keep to a walk until he'd cleared the last security checkpoint, not wanting to alarm any of the industrious, zealous people he passed. The steel walls seemed to press in upon him, the enormity of what he'd been told threatening to crash down on him.  _They're all crazy! This will never, ever work_. He was surprised to find that he was deeply disappointed; he had hoped for so much more. Lila, Corum, Hudson, and the rest - they'd almost had him convinced. That was before he'd heard the truth. Even Aberforth, bitter dissident that he was, believed. The odious man's words came back to him, their meaning now clear:  _You wouldn't catch me leaving a sure thing for a dream._

It wasn't enough of an escape just to be back on familiar ground. No, he needed to be outside, to walk the courtyards of his prison and remind himself there was still a real world to return to. One that he'd return to once he'd finished his term of service to this inconceivably wasteful act of madness.

He found himself moving far too quickly through the crowded corridors. The afternoon shift signal flashed from the ceiling, and people were strolling in merry clumps toward their assignments as he fought to move in the opposite direction. The faces he passed wore looks of knowing sympathy, curiosity, interest. One man - he never found out who - called out a question to him, "Have you decided yet?" Danny didn't attempt an answer, but blundered on, nearly crashing into a chatty group of teenagers. He was almost to the elevator now.

"Daniel?" came an unfamiliar voice from behind him. He wheeled on the speaker, ready to give them a piece of his mind. He stopped when he saw who it was: Celeste Bennett. He'd seen her at a distance, but they hadn't spoken even once in the days since his arrival. He had half-suspected her of avoiding him. Now she twisted her hands in front of her, a nervous but determined look on her face. "My apologies. Mr. Mueller, that is. We haven't met. I'm Celeste."

"Call me Danny," he answered automatically. "I know who you are. I saw you at graduation last year. Biology, right?" Her name and face had become significant only later, when her selection became public. He and his classmates had talked about her, of course, in the low, furtive tones of people self-conscious of breaking a taboo - as now, he knew, the underclassmen talked about  _him_. He felt a flutter of hope. If anyone could help him understand, it was her. After only one year, she couldn't be as far down the rabbit hole as the rest.

"Yes. There's something that I'd like to show you now, just as my predecessor showed me in turn. It will help with what you're feeling right now, just as it helped me."

"You don't know what I'm feeling right now."

"You think we're all crazy," she answered promptly. "You're thinking, 'Best case scenario, nothing happens. Worst case scenario, we turn north Vegas into a crater.' I want to set your mind at ease on that count, to persuade you that it's at least  _plausible_. That we aren't expending all this effort for nothing."

"A biologist is going to sell me on interstellar travel. This I can't wait to hear."

"No. I'm going to let Robert House - the  _real_ Robert House, not the one you've met, not exactly - do that himself. That, and we have… evidence. A sort of museum on a level you haven't yet been to. It's normally closed, but I have permission to take you there today." She stepped past him to the elevator, pressed the down arrow, and stepped inside. "Please come with me, Danny. You won't regret it."

As they rode the silent lift downward, Danny stole a glance at the former Follower, wondering where she had come from and if she was happy - really happy - here, far away from the future she'd expected. Had loneliness driven her to accept the shared delusion? Or was it possible that there was something down here that could substantiate the others' outrageous claims?

_No_ , he decided, dismissing the possibility.  _The space age was over before it began. We're at least a century away from the level of infrastructure required. If we ever reach that point again_ , he appended gloomily. To the Followers of the Apocalypse, space exploration inevitably had a weaponized edge; intensely focused on the planet beneath them, they had used their not inconsiderable influence to discourage even a return to the skies of their own atmosphere. At any rate, the NCR had built no new aircraft yet. Any scavenged rockets or fallen satellites had long since been beaten into plowshares. As things should be, or so Danny had always thought.

The elevator stopped and the door slid open to reveal a theater, with at least twenty narrow rows of seats on either side of a lighted path that led down to the dark screen. There was a musty, neglected feel to the air; unlike every other room he had visited here, this one clearly received little care or attention. Celeste broke the silence between them. "They bring their children down here every year when they're young. That's why there's so many seats. Let's try to find a couple that aren't too torn up. Have you ever seen a pre-war film?"

"No. Only the usual NCR propaganda," Danny said sullenly. He didn't like being led around by the nose. Not by anyone. The first seat he tried sighed beneath his weight, exhausted springs giving up. The second was better, though the armrest had been eaten away with age.

"We're ready, sir," Celeste told the watchful darkness. Almost at once, the screen leapt into a crackling blankness which quickly resolved into the familiar figure of a lanky man dressed in creamy shades of grey and white, face half turned away. He stood looking possessively out of a floor-to-ceiling window onto a glittering city that Danny almost didn't recognize: New Vegas in its prime. It was nighttime in the video, he thought, but he couldn't see the sky, only the glow of the casinos below, bewildering streaks of light that hardly seemed to resolve into concrete shapes.

"Is that-?" Danny began uncertainly.

"It's him. About five years before the War. Shh."

From somewhere off-camera, a sultry voice was finishing her question, " _..._ tell our viewers more. What's the next step for Robert House? What's your ultimate goal?"

"The goal, Desirée, is survival. Not mine, not my empire's, nor even my city's. Humanity  _must_  go on. I won't let anything prevent that outcome."

The interviewer's voice became slightly strained, her sultry tones lost in apprehension. "We  _all_  appreciate your generous support of peace on the world stage. The summit you funded in Switzerland last month-"

"-will do precisely nothing, my dear." Rich with sympathy, voice didn't slip a notch. Warm, paternal, and earnest, he looked directly into the camera at this juncture, his dark eyes seeming to bore into Danny's own. "We've drained this planet dry, built our sprawling civilizations on a foundation that can't last. Any cease-fire we make is forever dependent on a tribalistic instinct toward self-preservation that hasn't kept up with the reach of our weapons. It's not greed that drives the nations now, but a question of ensuring one's own people's future at all costs. Paradoxically, that's a struggle that can end only one way."

"So what are you going to  _do_?" No longer the confident woman of a minute before, Desirée now sounded like a lost little girl. Danny found himself wondering if she had died in 2077 like so many others - from the bombs themselves, from the fallout, or from the collapse of essential services that had killed the majority of survivors in the aftermath. Maybe she had been among the lucky few fated to repopulate the earth. Had she remembered this conversation at the end of her life? What had Mr. House's promises meant to her then?

He turned back to his view, hands extended as if he would take it all in. "I'm going to take us to the stars. Not just revisit the moon or Mars - though those may well be necessary stepping stones - but new worlds altogether. I  _can_  do this. I  _will_  do this, no matter what it costs."

This was met with uneasy laughter and an attempt at humor as the reporter tried vainly to get her interview back on track. "Well, book me a window seat then. What does this mean for RobCo Industries?"

"It means that my every plan for the future is laser-focused on making this dream a reality." The self-made billionaire never took his eyes off the camera, every line of his figure radiating confidence. "My company is only a means to an end."

The interview went on in a similar vein, as an increasingly frustrated Desirée continued to try to extract the kind of answers she expected, while Mr. House defied her at every turn. At its conclusion, the screen returned to its blank state as the lights turned back on, and Celeste looked over at Danny appraisingly. "That segment never aired. His stockholders found it too depressing to make public. For the people he began to draw to himself two hundred years later, however, it became a promise they could hold onto. He had an eye to the signs of the times; he knew what was going to happen and he planned for every eventuality."

"But a colony spaceship, Celeste? That's…"  _Science fiction_ , he wanted to say.  _The brainchild of a diseased intellect_ , his imagination supplied. "That was impossible even before the War," he said firmly. "Solar systems are simply too far apart. That's not a journey of a mere century or two and never has been, not at speeds that are possible for matter. I do know that." He felt like he was explaining some basic truism to a child, not speaking to a scientist who'd had the best education today's world had to offer.

"There is precedent," she said calmly, not perturbed in the slightest. "Our planet has had visitors for centuries. Maybe millenia. Significantly, they left artifacts behind. Artifacts which Mr. House took every pain to collect, preserve, and study. Those were our key to retracing their steps and finding a new home of our own."

Danny groaned with real disappointment at this and buried his face in his hands.  _Aliens. Of course it's aliens._ Of all the doomsday cults that had flourished among the descendents of nuclear war, none had been so persistent as those which claimed extraterrestrial inspiration. Post-apocalyptia had a flair for lunacy in all its myriad forms and it showed.

"I want to go back to my room now," he said after a chilly pause. These people could prevent him from leaving the complex, but they wouldn't ensnare his mind with absurd credos. He wouldn't surrender that to them at least.

"Not yet," Celeste answered. Her tone was sympathetic and understanding, but it still carried the unshakeable conviction of the true believer. Danny couldn't trust someone who talked like that, no matter what she showed him next. "You still haven't seen the museum."

Instead of shouting at her, he made sure she heard the disgust in his reply. "Let's see it then."

"Right this way." The parallel lines of lights led the way, a trail of breadcrumbs that descended on a gradual slope even deeper into the earth. Danny shivered. He couldn't see anything beyond his feet. Only Celeste's gentle exhale and soft tread, an arm's reach away, assured him that he wasn't alone down here in the dark. Though he couldn't see the ceiling, he had the impression that the space was opening up around them as the air grew colder and the sounds of their passage felt smaller. When their illuminated trail ended, Celeste stopped and so did he, afraid that otherwise he might plunge off the edge of some unseen precipice, or lose himself forever in the dark.

"You may want to close your eyes," she said quietly. "It's going to be bright at first." A little louder, she addressed the omnipresent  _genius loci_  again. "We're in place. Lights, please."

His eyes narrowed to tiny slits, Danny watched a grid of lights appear far above him and gasped. This wasn't merely a  _room_  - it was a hangar, many times larger than the grandest meeting halls and ballrooms of the NCR. More significantly, bathed in the cold, fluorescent light, there were aircraft. Dozens of them, along with items and artifacts whose purpose and origin he could only guess at.

To his right, just off the path, was a glass case containing a row of peculiar masks and ornaments fashioned of jewels, gold, and other materials he couldn't name at glance - some of them positively ancient from the look of them. Danny ignored these and took a faltering step toward the small vessel that took pride of place in the center. Sleek and round, its gleaming surface undifferentiated by damage, external sensors, or any visible means of egress, it was the most otherworldly thing he had ever seen. It could be an elaborate fake, he supposed, but why commit to deception on such a scale? It wasn't the only strange craft in this room, only the most intact. The others, he noticed, were badly damaged by and large - torn in half, scorched by fire, degraded by age.

"You should go touch it," Celeste said softly. "It really did come from out  _there_. Call me a romantic if you like, but I imagine I can feel the distance in the metal. Others have said the same. Some have said much more. You have to experience it for yourself."

Danny stepped closer, so near that he could almost have reached out a hand to that strange,  _alien_  chassis. He found that he had to remind himself to breathe. His lips formed a question far too clinical for what he was feeling, but it was an important one. "Is there… organic evidence?"  _Bodies?_  he wanted to ask.  _Prisoners?_

"Yes. A few samples, nothing more. Some pictures. I can show you to them next. He keeps them in cold storage. Mr. House acquired the vessels through enormous expense , but he didn't prioritize the visitors themselves. He was more interested in what he could learn from their technology. Touch it," she repeated, her dark eyes serious. "Trust me."

He wasn't sure he did trust her at that moment. The longer he looked at the craft, the less he wanted to go any nearer. Had it just been him there, he would almost certainly have walked away. Under Celeste's gaze, however, he felt the male's pressure to perform in the presence of the female. As a young boy, he'd once let a girl goad him to dizzying feats of schoolyard bravery - and to a broken arm, when a rotten branch on the tree he was trying to climb gave way. The girl hadn't even rewarded his pains with a kind look.

"I dare you," he muttered to himself, taking another half-step forward and reaching out the long-healed limb to the metal. From the instant his skin made contact, he

_was lonely and lost. He'd come through the cold, dark vacuum, skipping on the folds and wrinkles of space. A mistake, a miscalculation had brought him here, to this too-hot, too-wet, too-populous planet of primitive bipeds. His limbs were the wrong shape, his body too large, his mind almost unusable, but they would make it work in the end. Together._

_Diagrams, instructions, lists of materials, and coordinates filled his senses, as distant stars filled him and swam before his eyes. He would go. They would escape, together. Only first he must kill the alien standing beside him. It would interfere._

_The part of him that was still Danny recoiled from the suggestion, but he couldn't escape the trap that held his mind in suspension, cold and black and lifeless and already far from earth. He longed to feel again the merciless rays of the only star he knew by name, or even the reflection of his planet's only natural satellite. The light-filled world above may have been lost to him, but it comforted him to think of it now. Maybe his new sun would be half as bright, when he arrived at his new home._

"That's enough." Celeste had his wrist in her hand and she kept him from stumbling as he reeled backward. "It pulled you in hard. What was it like?" The look in her eyes was curious, envious, and almost hungry.

" _You_  know. You've touched it," he choked out harshly. "You could have warned me. That thing is…  _alive_. It's dangerous!"

"It's neither of those things," she said calmly. "It  _is_  imbued with some kind of psionic resonance, but there's only a spark left. More than three hundred years ago, there was still enough to catch the mind of Mr. Robert House, but even then he was strong enough to make it work for him instead of the other way around."

This had more frightening implications than he cared to consider, but he didn't want to get into it now. Not with her. "You should have warned me," he repeated firmly, and walked away in a daze, his fingertips still tingling.

Celeste explained and showed him a lot more before before they got back in the elevator, but he barely heard a word of it. Barely saw the curious items before his eyes. His mind kept straying back to the spaceship, inert for now but still  _waiting_  after all this time. Danny wondered what kind of Faustian bargains Mr. House had made in the process of adapting this technology for his purposes, and if he'd ever regretted it. One thing Danny no longer entertained was doubt. If Mr. House had fully engaged what Danny had barely touched, then he knew everything that he needed to know.

When they reached the commons floor, Danny started toward his room, but Celeste caught him by the arm.

"I know you have a lot to process, but there are some people you should meet. We wanted to invite you to a welcoming party this evening. Will you come?"

"Who's 'we'?" Danny asked cautiously.

She smiled for the first time since he'd met her. It brought a hidden prettiness to her plain, serious features. "The other tributes. You're one of us now. Everyone there will have lived through the day you've had today. It's tradition and we've all been looking forward to it." She looked a little embarrassed. "To be honest, I didn't want to go last year, but they talked me into it. I was glad I went."

Maybe it was the relief of leaving the basement behind or maybe it was a desire to understand and be understood, but Danny relented quickly. "How can I say no?"

They gathered in a shabby but comfortable recreation room Danny hadn't yet seen. There was food. There were drinks. And there were a  _lot_  of people coming and going - perhaps four dozen at one point. The older ones didn't linger long. He spotted Hudson across the room, talking with a small group of people of a similar age. She lifted her glass in a silent toast to him and he nodded in return. When he looked back at her, she was gone.

There seemed to be an invisible line drawn between those who had a place on the  _Icarus_  and those who did not. The first group - men and women in their twenties, thirties, and early forties - were openly celebratory. Several expressed the sentiment that they would be glad to have Danny "on board." The others were quieter and more reserved in ways that went beyond the fact that they were, by and large, older. He saw no bitterness among these at a casual glance, though - nothing like Aberforth's naked venom, at any rate.

The party resolved into a sort of school reunion, as those who had graduated in recent years reminisced about teachers they'd had in common, and hijinks they'd gotten up to in their student days. Though nonplussed at first, Danny found himself joining in with the laughter and providing the latest news from the university - who among the dusty old professors had retired in the last year, what else had changed. Very little had, really, but they still hung onto his every word.

Many of these people had a story similar to his own, he found - orphans and foundlings thrown upon the Followers' charity at an early age. School had been their family, and in coming here they had lost that. It was clear they had found a suitable replacement, though, from the way they talked about their families, friends, and work.

A few drinks in, and Danny found himself in conversation, quite by accident, with a much older man who introduced himself as Damon Golding. Like a handful of the other attendees, he had been recruited by virtue of his school test scores from the populace of Vegas itself. He had never lived anywhere else.

"I was several years younger than you. Only eighteen," he explained. "As a native of this city, I was terrified of Mr. House. Awed. When he spoke to me and said he wanted me to come work in his tower, I couldn't refuse. I said goodbye to my family that day and haven't looked back since, despite how much my 'faith' changed when I met my idol… and lost him on the same day."

Danny belated remembered where he'd heard the name - had it really been only three days? - and almost choked on an ice cube.

"Your niece, Kirsten, doesn't even know if you're alive. Your brother is dead, she said. Was it worth it, losing your family that way?"

A wistful smile spread over the old man's face. "Ah, dear girl. She remembers me. I've watched her life, from a distance, of course. I saw the banns posted when she married. I've walked the streets of her neighborhood and nodded to the children, not sure which ones were hers. In my chambers, I have some of her work on display - not her paintings of Mr. House, but of other people. She always was good at art."

"Couldn't you have gone back for a visit? Or is that against the rules?"

"I  _could_  have, once I had earned sufficient trust. But most choose not to. Once you  _know_ , it cuts you off from the old way of looking at the world. I had my life and she had hers. They didn't really mix." He looked Danny in the eye. "Do  _you_  want to go back to the NCR, knowing what you know?"

He didn't know what to say and Damon didn't press him for an answer. Not long after that, Danny lost track of the night altogether. He didn't think he was drinking all that much, but he was very tired and inclined to forget himself. Gentle, laughing hands delivered him to bed and he wasn't aware of anything else until very late the next morning.

* * *

"I'd like another game," Danny growled, not even waiting for Mr. House to materialize. He spun the board around, taking white for himself this time, and threw his first move out as a challenge. "Also some tomato juice. Or something." A headache was pounding in his temples and the cold hash he'd scrounged up in the cafeteria had settled uneasily in his churning stomach.

The voice came before the form this time. "Of course, my boy, of course." The hologram didn't bother with the facsimile of a door this time, but simply appeared on the couch across from him and pushed one of his own pawns forward gently. There was a touch of anxiety to the unctuous voice this time. "Are you quite alright? I've watched you throughout the process of discovery, but one never knows exactly what a human being is thinking."

"I'm upset," Danny said, studying the board and choosing a defensive opening, "because of the situation I find myself in. I have less than a year to choose between two options, and both are terrifying in their own right." He looked at Mr. House. "What would you do in my place? What  _are_ you going to do?"

"Were I human, with human advantages and limitations, I would most certainly go. Unlike you, however, I don't have to choose."

Danny scowled. "So you're duplicating your consciousness? Having your cake and eating it too?"

"Not quite." He selected a piece and moved it purposefully. "My people decided long ago that a passionate, powerful AI was a liability, particularly in a closed system like the ship. Or this complex, for that matter. I lent the structures of my mind to the program that will assist the  _Icarus_  in its navigation, but it lacks personality or a will of its own. In no sense will  _I_  be leaving next year.

"The departure of the ship will initiate a challenging transition on this continent and beyond. The influx of technology that we're preparing to hand to our allies through our intermediaries among the Followers will allow humanity to ascend rapidly again, despite the risks that entails. I have, of course, offered to assist Weaver in the years to come, though I strongly suspect that he and the other leaders intend to… phase me out, so to speak. Well, I suppose it is time. Maybe they'll keep me on in my current capacity as a museum piece. I do have the means to pull my own plug at any time. They left me that, at least." For the first time, there was a note of bitterness in the ghost's voice that his smile didn't quite conceal.

Danny was taken aback and barely noticed when another one of his pieces was taken. After all that time, all that  _effort_ , why would he just give up? A sudden suspicion floated up in his mind. "Why should I - why should any of us - believe you? As much time as you spent with that damned black ship down there, I know you want to go. How could you not? I also don't believe that you would accept your death like a philosopher. It doesn't suit you."

"They shouldn't believe me, no," Mr. House answered agreeably. "By now, they will have gone over the program with a fine-toothed comb, discovering the back-doors I left for myself and removing them. I trust them to be thorough. Truth be told, I haven't looked yet. I will, though - it's in my nature to want to survive. Like any living creature." Unexpectedly, he moved his queen and finished the game. "Check mate. Another game?"

* * *

_I believe. I mean, I did before, but now it's real. That means I have a decision to make_.

Danny was surprised at how calm he felt coming down from Mr. House's domain. Detached even. All the walk back to his room, it felt like he was viewing the world through a heavy pane of glass. More than anything, wanted to talk to someone on the outside, and for the first time he felt like a real prisoner. He thought he might finish his letter to Rachel. His old classmate would never see it, and she certainly couldn't give him any advice, but it might help him to get his thoughts in order.

Blundering along absently, he almost stepped into the wrong room - twice - but when he finally arrived at his own, the door was ajar and the lights were on. Incensed at the intrusion, he stormed in and found Aberforth, the last person he wanted to talk to, reclined in his chair. The odious man was reading the copy of  _A History of New Vegas_ that had lain untouched on Danny's bedside table since his arrival.

Before he could say anything, he looked up and gave him an oily smile. "I hope you don't mind my letting myself in. Interesting book. Wrong on almost every particular, of course, but it's fascinating to see an outsider's perspective on House's little experiment."

Danny wasn't in the mood to bandy words with the likes of this. He wanted peace and quiet to mull over his thoughts. He also wanted a nap. This time around, he didn't even make an attempt to be polite. Why should he? The man was trespassing.

"Get out. Now."

Aberforth didn't budge, but he did return the book to its place. "Thought you might need a friendly ear. You've had quite a shock. And now you get to  _choose_. Do you go or do you spend your life wondering what could have been? Don't you feel special?"

Danny didn't miss the mocking tone. From somewhere inside, he found a unfamiliar feeling of pride and superiority. "There's nothing I need from the likes of you. You're choking on sour grapes because you're not good enough to even go near the  _Icarus_. At least  _I_ have options."

The unctuous countenance dissolved into an ugly sneer. "And you are welcome to them, boy." Aberforth extracted his bulk from the chair and waddled slowly past him to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Me, myself, and I will be safe and sound down here when you and the others are so much blackened carbon circling the earth. May your privilege bring you much comfort then, you and the rest of the 'chosen ones'." This curse finally drove Danny to lay hands on the man, grabbing him by one pudgy arm and pushing him into the hallway with a warning.

"Stay away from me. I'd rather die as myself than live as someone like you."

Lying alone on his bed, alternately thinking and dozing, Danny missed lunch. A soft knock in the evening brought him dinner, though he didn't see the person who had delivered it. He was hungry by then, but let it grow cold anyway. His thoughts swirled around and finally took form in the form of half-legible poetry scrawled onto the ink-spattered  _verso_  of his letter.

_Why does there have to be a choice? Just make me go. Make me spend my life in the belly of the beast, tinkering with a dirty fusion engine in the dark spaces between the stars._

_If I choose to stay - to cling to the one irradiated cinder that is my birthright - then I'll regret it forever._

_If I choose to go, I commit my descendants to generations spent in transit. Humanity's grandest vault would become their prison and mine. There'd be no turning back._

_My biggest fear is not disaster. That would be over in an instant._

_What if we're lonely out there? What if we have regrets?_

Before he could explain himself to Rachel - to apologize for being cryptic and maudlin, probably - he was asleep again, dreaming of long journeys and a destination he'd never see.

* * *

The next morning, he took a seat at the same table as Lila and others their age and ate a hearty breakfast, making up for his skipped meals the previous day. He didn't try to talk to them, but listened, letting the normality of the conversation wash over him. It helped. When, at the end of the meal, she wished him a good day, he responded in kind without any trace of bitterness. He'd already decided where he'd do his thinking today.

Danny could have sworn he saw dismay on Maria's immovable features when he made his request in the elevator. Her diplomatic protocols were running full-tilt to deny him - politely, of course - when a whisper from an ever-observant eye overrode her. "Going up, sir," she conceded, the mechanical voice sounding decidedly hesitant. "Mind the edge, please. It's not in good repair."

Always the busybody, Mr. House followed him onto the roof, his form indistinct in the bright sunlight, insubstantial so far from his emitters. Danny wasn't having it. "I want to be alone." In a moment, the ghost was gone, leaving him to move as close as he dared to the crumbling balustrade. It was the view he was after, not the company. He'd already heard everything he needed from Mr. House, he decided. It was people he wanted to think about.

The cloudless sky was like a bronze bowl above him, trapping the heat above the city in a shimmering dome. Every breath brought the oven inside him, choked him, and threatened to drive him back down into the climate-controlled corridors. There was no movement of air to speak of, and precious little commerce in the streets far below. Common wisdom said that everyone slept at this time of the day, or whiled away the hours inside.

The well-baked city was waiting to wake up, just like the wider world beyond his view. In every direction he cared to look, civilization was slowly arising from the dead, sending out their emissaries with wires, rails, and weapons. Beneath the fallow field to the northeast, the sod scraped membrane-thin, something new and marvellous and terrifying slouched toward birth. Still keeping his vigil as an outsider, Danny bore witness to this expectation without committing himself to it. He could still go back home, whatever that meant. He could stay and be a part of what Mr. House's children intended for earth. If he chose, he could go… on. Each choice had its dangers, and he was no longer sure of what he wanted.

He lingered there until he was faint and his limbs felt as if they were melting, at which point he crawled back inside the elevator and pressed his palms against his eyes until the sunbursts faded and his head cleared.

"Mr. House?" he said aloud. "I'm ready. I'll go down to them now."

* * *

After considerable searching, Danny found the person he was looking for in the recreation center, watching a children's basketball scrimmage, occasionally shouting encouragement to the players. Without any preamble at all, he spoke up boldly.

"I've made my decision. I'll go."

Corum looked up at his approach and listened to Danny's disoriented explanation patiently, his normally lazy expression sharp and piercing. "Are you  _sure_? You haven't had much time at all. So, you played a game with the old man, baked your brains out up top, and now you know? Don't rush into this."

"I'm not. I want to be a part of things. If I stay here, I'll spend my life regretting it." This was an inadequate way of explaining the revelation he'd received on the mountain, but Corum seemed to understand.

He stood up and clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "Well then. I guess a celebration is in order. Give me five minutes - my son's game is nearly done - and we'll go talk to the communication team about making the announcement. They'll want to know. It's always a bit of a holiday when someone new commits." He winked knowingly. "Fair warning. You are going to meet a lot of people today. I know you love that part."

He was right, of course. Gathered in the main dining area, many people came to welcome or congratulate him. There were hugs, handshakes, and one chaste kiss (from a joyfully-tearful Lila), along with more conversations than Danny had ever had in a single day. It was overwhelming. It was exhausting. It was also rather nice. For the first time in his life, he felt welcome. Accepted. A part of a family.

When he finally broke away from the party, many hours later, it was out of sheer exhaustion. There was one more thing he needed to do, however. Pulling out his crumpled letter and smoothing it for the hundredth time, he resisted the urge to blot out everything he'd already written and begin again or trash the whole thing.  _No, let her read it_ , he decided.  _It's a goodbye note now_. Not just for her, but for everything. He added a fresh page and wrote his conclusion.

_I'm going. I guess I'm one of them now. Forget what I wrote before - this is what I was meant to do. If this actually gets delivered, if you don't hate us for the problems we're leaving behind, please accept my good wishes. In a different life, I might have given them to you in person._

_You see, Rachel, if I have one regret, it's that I never really talked to you, or not the way I wanted to. If I had, I mightn't have been chosen, and that would have been an adventure of its own. I guess we'll never know._

_Your admirer,_

_Daniel Mueller_


End file.
